


Things we carry.

by Michaelssw0rd



Series: 30 prompts. [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Gen, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8409643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: The burden becomes light that is shared by love.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArwenOak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenOak/gifts).



> I swore that the next thing I wrote, it would be dedicated to the extremely lovely person that is ArwenOak. I have written more in last week than I do in months, because her encouragement is amazing.
> 
> Also, I am going to try to do a 30 day challenge (And it would be delusional to think I can do it in actual 30 days, I will modify it as 30 prompt challenge). Wish me luck.

Reese always tried to carry a gun on his person. It did not feel like a device to him, it felt like an extension of self; his fingers reaching towards it, drawing it out, pointing and pulling the trigger the same way some other man would fold his fingers into a fist and throw a punch.

When he couldn’t carry a gun, he made sure he had a knife hidden somewhere- in the sole of his shoe or the lining of his coat. If he had to go through intensive security and could not even manage to sneak in a blade, CIA had taught him how to use a pen to puncture someone’s carotid.

John Reese was never without a weapon. They were a part of him.

Which was kind of poetic, because technically, he was one himself. What do you call a device of violence which was carried by a creature of destruction?

* * *

 

Finch’s fingers constantly tapped a rhythm of code. Sentences, stories, ideas, that would make sense to very few, if any, in the world if he was ever inclined to elaborate on them – and he never was. But everything needed an outlet and the jumble of thoughts that his brain carried- the mess of electrical impulses that had no meaning until Harold chose to give them one- took the language of code.

So he typed.

Input that was also output, because his brain was also a computer and sometimes it felt like his hands were just a medium with which two entities communicated. When there was no keyboard around, no computer to feed information into, his fingers still restlessly moved.

Sometimes, when he considered the whispers his treacherous brain wanted him to bring to life, he paused, and deliberately stopped his hands from following the order. His brain was small, and harmed just himself but giving birth to some of its creations would be a disaster.

Whether he shaped those notions into reality or not, he always carried them with him. Constantly he was aware of the beauty of the things that never would be, and of their horror,

* * *

 

Baggage.

That’s what they called the emotional burden that follows a person, no matter where they go. Something no one can ever shake off.

For Reese, it took the form of sensation of soft sheets, and filtering sunlight on his skin with quiet breaths rustling the covers. A laugh, a brush of fingers on his forearm, a moaned gasp against his lips. For Reese, baggage was in the beautiful moments spent with someone he loved; because he had lost it. And the blame was down to him.

The man who swore to protect the country, could not even protect someone who made him whole.

Sure, he carried the burden of innocent blood on his hands, of dying screams he choked off; with his knife in the victim’s chest and his fingers around their mouth, of crying loved ones who would never know what really happened. Sometimes he felt nausea roiling in his gut when he thought of the bodies he dismembered because parts were easier to hide and get rid of than a whole, when he remembered the feeling of digging graves and of lies and the deceit and the whole lot of awful that came with being an international killer.

Nevertheless,

Sweet taste of home baked muffins, ghost sensation of a tender kiss to his forehead were as likely to wake him up, crying and shaking in his bed, as were the memories of blood curdling screams of a young girl whose father lay gurgling around too much blood in her arms, the bullet from John’s gun embedded in his chest.

* * *

Sometimes the weight of Nathan’s death weighed heavier than what Harold thought he could carry anymore. Sometimes he felt like his knees would give out, and his back- sutured and held together by strings as it already was- would crumble under the enormity of the guilt.

Because in the end… He had killed Nathan.

Yes, he didn’t pull the trigger. Yes he did not detonate the bomb that went off… But he might as well have.

He remembered, as clear as it was yesterday, Nathan pleading, begging, and asking for one little thing: “Give me back the irrelevant list.” That’s all he needed to do, to save his best friend, and he had denied him that.

So now, every time he got an irrelevant number, every time he saved one, he realized that he was giving himself what he had refused to give to Nathan. And for what? To save himself obviously.

Yes. He was that selfish. Always had been.

Grace crying, voice breaking on his name, searching for him in a room full of broken bodies did not waver his heart, because once again… the only person he could ever save was himself. She loved him, but his love for reserved for one person alone. Someone who hoarded even his birth name, would definitely hoard something as precious as love.

So as much as he carried the weight of every death on irrelevant list- because he had not given a shit about them until they became relevant to him- he also carried this. Nathan’s and Grace’s love was his baggage to carry.

\--- And it weighed heavy.

 

* * *

Harold knew about the blood on his hands, the body count that was etched on his forehead. He knew about every gruesome and ghastly sin he would never be able to get rid of, and yet he trusted him to save lives of people. He knew about Jessica- knew how poisonous his touch was- and did not shy away when John brushed shoulders with him.

The first time Finch sips the Sencha green tea he brought for him- with full knowledge of how many times he had slipped toxic things in the drinks of people he had served- and smiles (frowned more like but you can’t have everything) Reese feels a knot unwinding in his chest. Whenever Finch praises him for helping a number, trusts him with his own life, stitches up his wounds and quietly but steadfastly cares, Reese feels lighter.

Like Harold is taking away some of his burdens. And John lets him.

John finds out about Grace, and Finch is relieved. He doesn’t blame him for Grace, he understands and forgives. Just like John suspects about the numbers and forgives him for that too. Sometimes when he is too tired, Reese reaches out and puts a hand on his back and helps him stay upright. Every day, Reese reaches out with his infinite compassion and gives Finch something to hold on to. Someone to share his burdens with.

The collective load of their baggage never decreases. They never part with it, they can never be rid of it. But Finch and Reese, Harold and John, take away a portion of guilt and sorrow from each other’s mind for their own. It’s mere redistribution of the same total.

And yet.

It feels like they can finally straighten their shoulders which have been hunched and bowed and draw in a deep breath that has been choked off by the mountain on their chests. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs and kisses for anyone who leaves comments.


End file.
